


languorous caresses

by charbroiled, pentagonbuddy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Illustrations, Knifeplay (fantastized), M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Sex, Trans Linhardt von Hevring, metodey lives, no gore in this fic?! who even am i, no longer sole owner of metodey tag?!, technically in my AU but doesn't matter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21782803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charbroiled/pseuds/charbroiled, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/pseuds/pentagonbuddy
Summary: Sleepy cuddles turn to sex between post-war Linhardt and Metodey; reflections on the nature of comfort.Now a series of smutty pwp shorts.Illustrated by the illustrious @pentagonbuddy!!
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/Metodey
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29
Collections: Sanguine Throne (Edelich) AU Multiverse





	1. languorous caresses

**Author's Note:**

> Technically in the Sanguine Throne AU, but don't worry about it, or the pairing either lol. Just wanted to write some cute sleepy sex, gehehe.
> 
> Illustrated by the illustrious [@pentagonbuddy!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/)

Metodey leaned back, into Linhardt's embrace, enjoying the little tactile sensations of the other man's night robe against his own naked back, how his hips and butt fit snugly against Linhardt's hips. Small things that made his shoulders relax but his core electric and his chest tight, in a good way.

Linhardt had sat in bed alongside him, yawned, and suggested they cuddle, and of course Metodey agreed enthusiastically, and the cuddle had steadily progressed to caresses and petting. All things he'd done before, in the rush after the heat of battle, with whichever other soldier would have him, and it had been fun enough then, but there was a… a casual intimacy to this which was somehow more satisfying even without the heady urgency of violence and adrenaline.

When Metodey voiced his arousal, Linhardt propped himself with pillows up against the wall and had the wiry assassin sit against him, his back to the taller man's chest. Linhardt had trailed soft fingers up Metodey's thighs and asked him what he wanted to think about. Linhardt's soft voice and his soft touch built a trembling heat and pressure which traveled directly to Metodey's hips and made him squirm.

Why _was_ it so much better when someone else touched him, rather than himself? Especially when it was Linhardt. He made a note to ask later, when the question wouldn't distract. Right now he just wanted to drink in the touch…

Linhardt's hands settled to rest at the dip of Metodey's groin, just short of his cock. Teasing!

He leaned his head back to nip at Linhardt, though he was short enough that he could only graze the scholar's jaw. Linhardt smiled, sleepily.

"What are you thinking of?" he murmured, gently, against Metodey's ear. 

What was he thinking of? Linhardt, looking at him with his dark eyes, thoughtful, not cruel, pinning him down, and— with a knife in his hand—

"Ah— you have a knife, and— digging into my hips, where it's tight—" Yeah, damn, that was making him hard, thinking of Linhardt just like how he must be looking at him now—

"Hm." Not disapproval, exactly; sleepy, thoughtful, so thoughtful. Linhardt traced fingernails along the dip of where Metodey's hip met his thigh, exactly where he was thinking of the muscles unraveling under the blade, Linhardt's hair tickling his cheek, every touch left a trail of sensation— "How about ice, instead?"

"Ice?" Metodey repeated, breathless. Oh, yeah, Linhardt hated blood. Hard to keep in mind at the moment.

"Held against skin, it causes a similar sharp pain."

"Mm... yeah. All right, ice."

Linhardt's gore aversion was funny to the assassin too because, despite the scholar's smooth hands, free of weapon callouses, he'd killed his share of soldiers. Well, not everyone found enjoyment in their jobs. His arms tightened around Metodey’s waist, his hand cupping Metodey’s fingers to stroke his cock. Metodey sucked in a breath and tipped his head back to suck in a breath, take in Linhardt’s warm scent— even his nightclothes smelled of roses. Yes, there— a chill made his pelvis twitch—  
  
Linhardt's breath evened out, his hands stilling. Ah,he'd fallen asleep again. Metodey carefully moved Linhardt's limp hand back to his thigh— easy to just finish and join him in sleep—  
  
Linhardt tweaked his nipple and Metodey made a startled gasp. "Ah— Linhardt—!"  
  
"Did you like that?" Drowsy, but amused. Endearing.

He started again, stroking himself while Linhardt lazily circled his nipple with his fingers. Panting, Metodey tipped his head back to nuzzle Linhardt's chin, but mostly got a mouthful of hair which he brushed out of his mouth with a cough.

Linhardt blinked drowsily, and raised his head. "Hm?"

"You fell asleep again," Metodey said, breathily, stifling his laugh mostly because it would ruin his mood if Linhardt laughed too. "Do you want to lie down?"

"Mm… no. I'm comfortable here. Keep going." Linhardt shifted slightly to brush Metodey's chest. His smooth voice and gliding touch made Metodey's skin prickle. "My touch is ice, you feel it all the way down deep inside you."

"Ah— yeah—"  
  
Linhardt traced up Metodey's neck, his fingertips leaving a trailing shiver as though he were using magic— he wasn't, but he felt it,pleasure that intesified when he rolled his own nipple between his fingers, gripped his own cock, imaging Linhardt opening him with ice— yeah. He felt it down his spine, into his abdomen, he would have preferred a knife but he thought of the jabs of ice in his cock and gut and ah, fuck, it was good, it felt good, Linhardt digging in, so attentive to every little move he made—

A slight snore tickled his ear. Metodey couldn't help but giggle; his snort woke Linhardt again.  
  
"Was I asleep?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Hm… sorry."

"You fall asleep all the time. I don't care, since you're here anyway." It was flattering, actually, how Linhardt dozed off. During the war— and before it, really, given Metodey's unsavory background— relaxation had been a rare commodity, made all the more precious by how fleeting safety was. Hard to sleep with ambush threatened on every— oh, choking, that was a good addition to any fantasy. 

"Put your hand on my throat."  
  
"Rude," Linhardt murmured.  
  
Metodey leaned back again, to brush Linhardt's jawline with his lips. "Please?"

"How's this?" Linhardt wrapped his fingers around Metodey's throat— 

...well, rested them on his throat, really, half-asleep again already (and undoubtedly would doze off before Metodey finished), but it was easy to imagine his hand tightening, and his breath quickened with merely imagining fighting for air, Linhardt pinning him down, ice piercing through into his hips, behind his cock, yes, yes—  
  
Linhardt's fingers twitched in his sleep, arm tightening against Metodey, blunted nails digging into skin almost like he meant it. Metodey hissed through his teeth, taut, leaned forward, panting splitting his mouth into a wide, eager smile as he lost himself to the pressure and the heat building until—  
  
He came with a seizing shudder, breathless. It took him a moment to even catch his breath and collect his coordination enough to flop back into Linhardt's languid embrace. How cosy… It felt like the ice had cooled into his blood and melted into his muscles. He could have been a jellied terrine, that was how loose he felt. Ah… he could drift off to sleep like this, nestled warm against Linhardt...

Oh, wait. His cum was drying on him. Ugh, if it dried it would smell and itch.

Metodey sighed and shifted to reach for a handkerchief on the nightstand, but the movement woke Linhardt. Linhardt stroked under Metodey's jaw, slid his hand up to find his nipple. Metodey slipped his hand under Linhardt's hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed it.  
  
"I'm done," he whispered.  
  
"I didn't notice."  
  
"I know!" This time Metodey did laugh. 

He tossed the used handkerchief over the side of the bed, onto the floor, and turned to pull Linhardt down from sitting into his arms. Linhardt moved easily, rolling into a cuddle. He was tall enough that he cupped Metodey easily, and half-asleep in the way where his weight settled against him comfortably and easily, like a cat's. Metodey nestled up against the scholar, marveling at this feeling, the base… pleasure? Was that still the word? How versatile… Of simply having someone touch him, and with that quiet thought he joined Linhardt in sleep.

  
  



	2. eager tastes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metodey causes trouble, Linhardt decides to distract him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Metodey is a vampire. Illustration by the fantastic and astoundingly quick [@pentagonbuddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentagonbuddy/)!!! Apparently this is our MeLin smut drawer now.

Metodey always carried an eagerness within him; not just the darting focus in his eyes but the way he leaned forward when Linhardt talked, the tautness of his posture, the way he licked his lips and picked at his cuticles with his black blood-beast claws. His greedy attentiveness made Linhardt feel as though everything he was saying was interesting, implausible as that was, and that Metodey wanted nothing more than to listen; an oddly flattering trait for such a fidgety, often-crude man.

But not _always_ crude, no. Sometimes he was remarkably sweet.

Today was not a day where he was sweet. Instead, Metodey had pulled every single book off the shelf, leaving charcoal stains on them from his diary scrawlings, and rearranged the entire library by spine color. Completely useless, but impressively thorough. Linhardt's prevailing theory was that the man was bored. Fair enough; recovery from blood starvation was a slow process, and Metodey wasn't allowed outside lest Hubert discover his whereabouts and finish murdering him.

Leaning against the corner where the library bookshelf met wall, Metodey licked his fingers and turned a page of the book while Linhardt watched, smudging the interior of the book with charcoal now as well as the spine. "Linhardt," Metodey said, with annoyance to his voice.

"Yes?"

"This is called the Black Book of Fodlan's Ghosts. It's clearly bound in grey."

"It's metaphorically black."

"Well, I've got charcoal, I'll fix it."

 _Absolutely not._ Linhardt pushed himself out of his armchair and walked over. "Would you like to do something else instead?"

Metodey closed the book with an audible clap and looked up, meeting Linhardt's eyes with the narrowed smugness of a cat caught mid-game. His breath smelled like roses; and under the roses, the slightest hint of blood. "Like what?"

Linhardt took the book and set it down on the shelf beside him. In another step he had his body pressed against Metodey's, Metodey's back against the wall. It was nice, the way Metodey's breath hitched, his face flushed, his lips parted into the beginning of that thoughtless grin he so often wore while he looked up at Linhardt; and the way his hands rested on Linhardt's waist, to run up his sides and along his back. By now a… perhaps too familiar touch.

Still, Metdoey didn't move further; just gazed breathlessly up at Linhardt, waiting, seemingly content simply to have their bodies pressed together. Well… where to start…? He had some ideas, a hypothesis, even-- how sensitive _was_ Metodey?

Linhardt cupped his jaw and ran his thumb along Metodey's lips, parting them further. Metodey made a thin noise, almost a whine, his wide eyes fixed on Linhardt so intently that he almost seemed unfocused. And a hardness between his legs was becoming apparent against Linhardt's thigh. Well. That was somehow even faster than expected. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what Metodey was thinking; proximity to the veins of his wrist, probably.

He stood in thought long enough, tracing Metodey's cheek and lips idly, that Metodey squirmed under him, squeezing his legs around Linhardt's thigh, swallowed, his throat bobbing. "Please?" Metodey whispered, and licked his fangs.

Ah. Now that pleasurable feeling was spreading to Linhardt as well, deep between his legs. Linhardt leaned in slightly, enough to brush his lips against Metodey's, his thumb still in the corner of Metodey's mouth. He took to it hungrily, teeth against Linhardt's lips, pulling him closer as though he could fuck Linhardt through his mouth alone. Which-- so long as he focused on the smell of roses--

Linhardt slid his fingers further into Metodey's mouth, ran his thumb along Metodey's gums. Metodey shuddered.

"Ah--" Metodey swallowed again, so careful to suck on Linhardt's fingers without biting down, and when Linhardt shoved his other hand under his shirt and brushed his nipple Metodey jerked under the touch.

"Sensitive?" Linhardt murmured.

"No," Metodey lied, around Linhardt's fingers, and then his grip tightened on Linhardt as the scholar rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Y-yes--!"

"That's what I thought."

Linhardt kissed him on the forehead, withdrew his hand from Metodey's mouth, and lifted his shirt further, shifting to nip at Metodey's neck now. With a little angling he could get his leg directly between Metodey's thighs. From the eagerness with which Metodey straddled his leg, he clearly enjoyed the modified position as well.

Linhardt pinned him against the wall, his other hand sliding under the waist of Metodey's trousers. He kissed his way down to Metodey's chest, grazing his teeth along his skin before placing his mouth over Metodey's exposed nipple and sucking. 

"Ah-- ah, Linhardt--" Metodey tangled one hand into Linhardt's hair, arching against him. His nipple hardened under the flat of his tongue just like his cock did against Linhardt's leg.

"How does it feel?" Linhardt murmured, against the straining rise and fall of Metodey's chest. His left hand wandered along the curve of Metodey's hips, to the soft mound of the base of his cock. Metodey's nails dug into the fabric over Linhardt's back, grinding against him.

"Just-- just like you're-- like you're touching me-- inside-- me--"

Hmm. That was a partial thought that seemed likely to turn unpleasantly vivid in short order. Intestines, or similar. Perhaps a change of pace was called for. He pinched Metodey's nipple in his mouth, traced his fingers, still wet with Metodey's spit, up Metodey's stiff cock. Metodey's entire body jerked under him.

"Nnh-- let me…" Metodey twisted his head, lips parting to pant raggedly against the arch of Linhardt's neck. With reluctance he loosened one hand from his death grip around Linhardt's waist, to slide it between them and palm his own cock. "--there--"

With a caught breath Metodey arched against Linhardt and began to stroke himself. Linhardt barely had to do anything-- it was an interesting study in self-satisfaction, and he would have been content just to watch, so close, Metodey's flushed skin and hot breath, and feel him writhing, increasingly frantic, under him, against the wall, but it was equally easy to press against him harder and circle his nipple with his fingers and that, too, got significant results.

Metodey hissed Linhardt's name and bit down on Linhardt's collar, not hard enough to draw blood, especially not through the fabric. He made, muffled, needy noises into Linhardt's neck that stirred as much excitement in him as the twitching of Metodey's lithe body-- and all too soon, with a jerked cry buried in the scholar's neck, Metodey finished hot between them. 

It took Metodey a moment to breathe again, clinging to Linhardt; then he moved he head to catch his breath, his face still pressed against Linhardt's neck, hugging him tightly but now unsteadily, for support; his heart pounded against the scholar's chest. Linhardt carefully slid his hands around Metodey's sides as he began to slink down the wall, legs wobbling post-orgasm.

Linhardt throbbed pleasantly still, between his legs, and languidly considered what he might like to do about it-- or have Metodey do, there were options-- but when he looked back down at Metodey gazing up at him with that reverent look on his face he realized that Metodey had, of course, come onto his shirt. Which meant that Linhardt's shirt was dirtied as well, and both would have to be washed. Linhardt sighed. Washing the clothes to avoid suspicion of who he was hiding in the institute was a better use of time, unfortunately, than attending to his own arousal.  
Metodey blinked, relaxed, his eyes dilated, then followed Linhardt's gaze down to the stain. His cheeks flushed red again. It was endearing, his embarrassment.

"I'll-- uh, I'll wash it out," Metodey said, and leaned forward to immediately pull his shirt off. Linhardt waited for the shirt to be discarded, then crouched to kiss him again, on the cheek.

"I appreciate it," Linhardt said, running his hands up Metodey's chest again, enjoying how even sated Metodey's muscles tightened and shivered under his fingers. "But not quite yet. We've already made a mess; what's a little more?"

  



	3. votive touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An experiment in exquisite suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bondage, sensory play, overstimulation, brief violent fantasy b/c Metodey has an overactive imagination that Linhardt refuses to indulge. Metodey and Linhardt are both still vampires in this AU but don't worry about it.
> 
> This chapter is both written and illustrated by pentagonbuddy!

There aren’t many times Metodey has enjoyed having his hands bound. It tastes better when he’s the one watching his captive squirm, so very satisfying to admire his craftsmanship when they can’t break free—if they do, well, that invites a different sort of thrill. But to be the one with his wrists tied together above his head, writhing on a threadbare sheet while Linhardt looks on? That, too, is a different sort of thrill. Maybe an even better one.

Linhardt’s robe hangs open, its sea green sash wrapped around Metodey’s wrists. No matter how often he sees the other man bared to him like this, Metodey’s body aches at the sight and his palms itch to touch. His hands clench and unclench as Linhardt turns away to light a candle on the nightstand; the fire kindles the heat inside Metodey while he admires how its light gilds the scholar.

“Are you ready?” Linhardt turns back with a second sash in his hand. His robe brushes across Metodey’s naked skin as he leans over, and its silk caress turns Metodey’s nods frantic. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up.”

“Yes,” Metodey says, already finding the word stuck in his throat. Linhardt’s barely touched him, yet his nerves blaze and his heart races like he’s seconds before a fight. Strange feelings prick at him—Anxiety? Excitement? Dread? 

Excitement, yes. He feels that one as Linhardt covers his eyes. Surely it’s excitement that has him asking a moment later, voice thin: “Linhardt?”

“Still here,” Linhardt says with a soft mumble that comforts Metodey, even as the hand on his thigh startles him.

The fabric isn’t thick enough to leave him in total darkness. Linhardt disappears into a blur of fuzzy edges as he fusses with, with—the excitement makes it hard to remember—as he fusses with the _things_ he’d prepared for tonight. There’s the blindfold, yes, and candles as well as ice. Clinks and clangs from the instruments for an experiment.

It’s not dark, not entirely, he reminds himself. It’s not dark, it’s not wet, there’s nothing in the shadows, not him or the rats or the vulture with his bright green eyes gleaming in the darkness— 

Something, _someone_ has the gall to touch Metodey and send him arching away, joints locked and stiff while his body assesses the situation. No, not _someone_ —Linhardt. It’s only Linhardt.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Metodey hisses through his teeth, hands clenching and unclenching above him. “Fine. It’s only Linhardt.”

Silence.

“...Linhardt?”

The bed creaks, he shudders again at silk on his skin, and dim light mars his vision when Linhardt undoes the blindfold. Metodey is met with a dark-eyed evaluative stare.

“No, no, no, put it back—”

“Shhh,” Linhardt coos, cupping Metodey’s face in his hand. “Perhaps another time?”

A high-pitched whine sneaks through Metodey’s nostrils. “I can handle it.”

Eyes closed, he tilts himself towards Linhardt, lips parted for a kiss in an experiment of his own. Linhardt drifts close enough for rose-scented perfume to overwhelm his senses, and his pulse pounds to a rabbit-like rhythm, but it’s only sweet Linhardt, who won’t even hurt him in the ways he _wants_ —nevermind anything else!

When the kiss happens it’s not on his lips but on his brow, which furrows. He cracks one eye open, then the other, and huffs.

“I don’t doubt that,” Linhardt says with a smirk, “but don’t you think it’d be just as nice to watch?”

Watching? Well, when he’s like this...

While it stings that Linhardt thinks he can't handle the blindfold—his stomach twists at the thought of it—it's not so bad to meet Linhardt's half-lidded gaze. He can study the scholar in the way he studies Metodey, with a hunger to know his body, his touch, his lust.

Yes, not bad at all to shiver under Linhardt's fingertips as they map the contours of his muscles...How exciting for Linhardt to chart a course along his chest, sucking at his nipple, kissing up until his face is buried into Metodey's neck. He could lose himself in this were it not for the ache between his legs, back in full force under Linhardt's ministrations.

“Mm, I could go for a nap,” Linhardt mumbles into his skin. “But then you’d be stuck. So if you’re ready, I’ll continue.” He presses a languid kiss to his throat before sitting up.

Metodey snorts. “Stuck? Do you really think this”—he strains against his bindings—”is enough to keep me here?” 

A shiver follows Linhardt’s fingertips as they ghost along Metodey’s wrists. “If you know you can get out, doesn’t that rob it of the fun?”

“Not with you.” He slumps back against the bed with a sigh. “Even if you were asleep, it’d be fun to slip out. Then you’d be at _my_ mercy.”

Then Linhardt’s hand curls into a tight fist against Metodey’s chest. An even larger shiver zips through him when one knuckle brushes a nipple. “And what, exactly, would you do?”

No, he can’t bear to watch Linhardt’s smile droop into a thin line, and so he looks to the candle with its quivering flame. “I’d blow out the candle—safer that way—and tuck you in. And then you’d hug me, and it—it’s so _tight_ when you’re asleep...”

The hand on his chest relaxes, drifts up to tuck loose hair behind Metodey’s ear; he leans into the touch only for it to slip away.

“Is that what you like about hugs? The pressure?” Linhardt slides the discarded blindfold between his fingers, pulling it taut while he talks. “That’d correlate with some of your other...hm, interests.”

 _Is_ it the pressure? Metodey clenches and unclenches his hands, tests how his blunted claws dig into his palms. Pressure...No, even when Linhardt just lies there, motionless save for the steady rise and fall of his chest, it grips his own chest. Difficult to say whether or not _that_ type of pressure is enjoyable, but the memory of it makes him squirm either way.

“Hugs seem a bit difficult at the moment...” Watching Linhardt now, backlit in radiant gold, inspires that same ache. “So how about this?”

He takes the sash and wraps it around Metodey’s neck, once, twice, then loops it into a loose knot. An exquisite sort of pressure, this one. While it’s nowhere near tight enough, the smooth fabric against his jugular sends a spark of pleasure through him.

“You can tighten it.”

Linhardt rolls the knot under his fingers. “Yes, I could.”

“...Please?”

He sighs and tugs the knot’s end, drawing out a gasp from Metodey even though the sound makes his fingers twitch.

Still not enough. “Tighter? Surely a little more won’t hurt?”

The look on Linhardt’s face...Disapproval? Worry? It’s not like him to be _nervous_ in bed and it’s far from the first time Metodey has asked for this particular vice, but if asking won’t work, then perhaps begging…

“ _Please_ , Linhardt, just a little—” The words twist into a yelp as a searing cold presses into his stomach.

Linhardt rubs a chunk of ice against Metodey’s skin with a pair of metal tongs, the sort he uses in his lab. “Aren’t we trying something else tonight?” 

_Retreat,_ Metodey’s body shrieks and recoils from the sting of ice, even as the twitch of his cock demands more. The ice slides up his chest, circles one nipple before it’s pulled away; Linhardt blows on the wet trails left in its wake, drawing lines of sharp sensation with his breath that leave Metodey trembling. And then—

Some foreign, keening sound leaps from his throat as wax drizzles onto his chest. Linhardt raises the candle he’d tipped, stops the flow, and watches with that impassive look so often etched onto his features.

Had he made the wrong sound? Metodey clears his throat. “...Hot.”

Linhardt holds out his own wrist and drips wax onto it, sucking in a quick breath when it hits. “As expected.”

Oh, he could kiss that mark. Peel away the wax with his teeth, soothe the burn with his tongue…He licks his lips and tries to push his wrists apart instead. They remain bound.

Though he can’t seem to free himself—for now—he can watch and whine and plead and, well, if it were anyone other than Linhardt then he wouldn’t be in such a pathetic situation in the first place.

But it’s only Linhardt, whose mouth curls into a subtle smile as he trades the candles for the tongs, then hovers another chunk of ice over his skin. They’ve been fooling around long enough that it drips water, such a focused sensation all the more intense for how small it is. The ice is still cold, _as expected_ , but dulled where it crosses the wax, and like before Linhardt follows it with more wax, fresh and hot and captivating. That drips, too, in criss-crossing lines that melt away the excitement—no, the anxiety—of earlier, and layer after layer of pleasurable warmth builds in its place as the wax congeals.

“How is it?” Something about Linhardt’s voice is distant. No, not his voice, but the way it sounds in Metodey’s ears.

“I...” He moans as Linhardt rubs ice against his nipple, back and forth until the ice melts. “I...I didn’t know you had— _hah_ —this...this in you.”

When Linhardt slices a frigid arc across his stomach, it's all too easy to imagine his entrails spilling out, steaming as they welcome sweet Linhardt into his ribcage to grasp his heart and soothe the pain with his touch—

Linhardt tucks some loose hair behind his own ear. “Does it hurt?”

“I like it.”

His gaze drifts down to Metodey’s cock. “So it seems.”

Oh. Oh, would he do it there? Metodey rocks his hips at even the imaginary burn between his legs. No, or maybe an ice-hot touch, or even just skin-on-skin—Linhardt hasn’t touched him once since the tongs, has he?

“Touch me.” He swallows hard, a motion that bobs his throat and reminds him of the sash hugging his neck. “Touch me, _please_ …”

Linhardt looks over his wax-covered torso. Says nothing as he hovers the tongs above the candle’s flame. Turns them over to heat them evenly, stares into the metal—his reflection? He presses the tongs against his own skin and mutters to himself about it.

Metodey rolls closer, shifts against his bindings, growls as they stay firm.

When Linhardt finally touches him it's not with his hands but the warmed tongs, which he rubs against Metodey's thighs and between his legs. Rubs, pulls, pinches oh-so-gently, teases out moans and gasps and broken syllables until words no longer leave Metodey's mouth, only desperate mewling.

Though something is said to him, it doesn't penetrate the haze in his thoughts. Nothing does, not until his body seizes and he empties himself of, of _everything_ , really. It splatters over the dried ropes of white wax, leaving him with little more than sweat and the fantasy of Linhardt spilling onto him like this.

Linhardt's blessing. Even if it didn't come from his body, it's Linhardt who marks him. Linhardt who touches him, who peels off the soft wax and strokes the smooth pads of his fingertips against him once more.

A touch that Metodey’s feverish body still responds to. Hotter than the candle even as he shivers more than he did with the ice, Linhardt’s hands trace their earlier paths until Metodey chokes down a sob. Another follows when they leave him.

“Too much?”

He shakes his head.

Despite the reassurance—it’s _meant_ as one, anyway—Linhardt frowns as he leans over Metodey to untie the knot around his wrists. Joints he hadn’t realized were sore start to ache after he lowers his arms; his own fingers drift through the mess that sticks to his skin.

Linhardt holds his hand. “How are you feeling?”

So many questions. “Good,” he mumbles, squeezing in return.

Now he unties the sash around Metodey’s neck, despite ample protests. Ah well, maybe someday he’ll get to do more with it…

“...It really _did_ look like it hurt.”

“Good.” The repetition seems displeasing to Linhardt, who frowns. He forces more words through his slack lips. “Good for you, too?”

“I’ll admit I was rather worried at first,” Linhardt says, swiping his thumb across the tears under one of Metodey’s eyes, “but then I got to see you like this. Such a mess...”

He peels away more wax, lifts a cast of what must be a nipple; it squishes easily into a ball as he rolls it between his fingers.

 _Good_ , Metodey wants to say, but instead he sighs and mimics the rolling motion with the edge of Linhardt’s robe. Probably he should find more than one word to describe how he feels, but…

“If I died right now, I think I’d be happy.” His hand wanders up Linhardt’s leg. “But you wouldn’t like that at all, so maybe not.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Such a gentle smile. Radiant. Beatific. “But this won’t kill you—no blood, no violence. Just your basic elements of hot and cold, really.”

Metodey drags himself into the other man’s lap, one tear-stained cheek against his thigh. “Mm, I want the more advanced ones next time. I can handle it.”

“We’ll see about that,” Linhardt says.

A purr settles into his chest, eases the clamp around his heart while Linhardt pets his hair. Surely there’s a word for the ache his touch inspires—one of these days he’ll find it.

[ ](https://twitter.com/PentagonBuddyEX)


	4. phantasmal delight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Linhardt attempts to explore the erotic possibilities of animated bait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how the other chapters mention this is set in a vampire AU but you don't need to worry about it? It's actually relevant for this one!

No matter how many times Linhardt tastes blood, it’s as repulsive as ever. But then why shouldn’t it be? Though his body has reshaped itself to tolerate— _crave_ —something so foul, his mind remains as it always has, and he’s convinced no one in their right mind would have blood as their drink of choice.

Metodey has never been someone that Linhardt considers in his right mind. The left one, perhaps. At the moment he looks out of it entirely, splayed underneath Linhardt with unfocused eyes while the tip of his tongue peeks past his lips. He licks two of his fingers, smears them along his neck to wipe up those last drops of blood that Linhardt couldn't bring himself to finish, and sucks them clean.

Disgusting.

“Delicious,” Metodey says, pulling his fingers out with a slurp.

Linhardt rolls off of him, bounces pillows as he flops back against his bed. “If you say so.”

The pillows barely land before Metodey latches onto him. He’s hard, as he so often is whether giving or receiving blood, but says nothing about it and instead curls around Linhardt with a sigh. Regardless of how he feels about the purpose, there’s something to be said about the process; the way they press their bodies together, limbs entwined while Linhardt sinks his fangs into Metodey’s neck or wrist or thigh, and really that seems to be the other man’s favorite part even when there’s no blood involved.

Metodey’s breath hitches at the brush of Linhardt’s fangs again; his pulse quickens when they prick his neck and though Linhardt’s mouth waters, he abstains from a bite.

“Still hungry?” Metodey’s hands tangle in his hair, talons and all. “It’s all yours. As much as you want.”

Linhardt pulls away, heedless of the whine that follows. “No, just curious.”

Though Metodey chases him for a kiss, he turns his head so that it lands on his cheek. He really ought to know better by now—no kisses after either of them have had blood, _especially_ without so much as a mouth rinse.

Metodey huffs through his nostrils, lowers his head back to the pillow. “About what?”

“Mm, you.” A shiver makes its way down his spine as Metodey’s claws massage his scalp and pull him closer. “And how much you like bites. Why is that?”

“Ah—” Metodey rocks his hips. “Feels good. Like having you in me.”

The penetrative aspect? Is it really so simple? Linhardt mulls it over, despite the insistent pressure that builds between his own legs at the grinding.

"Do you like the fangs in you, specifically?" He grabs Metodey's hips, digs his thumbs in until he takes the hint and stops moving. These are important questions, after all. "What about my fingers? Or if I had something larger?"

"I don't mind that you don't. Even just your fingers, ah…" Metodey licks his bloodstained lips. "So long as it's you, I—"

Linhardt shushes him with a finger that he nips in response.

“I have something I could try besides fingers,” he says, pushing past Metodey’s teeth and into his mouth, “...but it’s a dreadful amount of work.” 

“Dreadful?” The word comes out wet and muffled.

"Might be fun to experiment, though it's been quite some time…"

Metodey gasps when Linhardt slips his finger out, then wipes it on the bed sheets. It would be hard work, yes, but if it really _is_ just penetration that Metodey wants, there's no need for blood or fangs or any sort of weapon to be involved. The Goddess—or whoever was responsible—had seen fit to give him a body well-suited to taking whatever he decided to put in it, but with the proper spells he can give just as much as he receives. Giving less is more common if he’s honest with himself; rarely can he match his partner’s enthusiasm. Certainly not Metodey’s.

The nightstand has everything they'll need. Linhardt fetches a set of waxed leather caps for Metodey's talons along with a bottle of oil from the top drawer. Hm. They'll need to refill the oil soon. Should be enough for tonight, despite how careless his partner can be with it.

Something sharp taps his shoulder—ah, a claw. He looks over to Metodey staring and hands him the leather caps along with the bottle; he nearly drops both.

"I suppose you may as well use the rest of the oil.” Linhardt leans over the bed to reach a lower drawer that holds a chalkboard and a wooden case. ”It's best if you prepare yourself thoroughly."

"For what?" He looks over to another wide-eyed, clueless expression.

“Me.”

Understanding pulls Metodey’s slack features into a grin, and he fumbles with the caps—intentionally, Linhardt suspects—until Linhardt slips them on for him one at a time.

At the last cap he spares a moment to squeeze Metodey’s hand, then returns to the nightstand for the chalkboard with its accompanying set of enchanted chalk and a compass. A simple thing for conjuration experiments from the comforts of his own bed, though it’s been quite some time since he’s used it for something like _this_.

All arrays start with a circle. Simple enough. As for the rest, well. Something phallic in shape is an obvious choice, and he’ll need to adjust length and width, but then there’s the finer details of form and texture and miscellaneous properties…

Such a bother. Best to start with something simple just to dust off his memory, though quiet little sounds distract Linhardt as he draws the sigils—Metodey squirming against his own fingers, his eyes scrunched shut until the spell activates with a flash and magic crackles through the air.

A phantasmal worm wriggles in the fading array.

Metodey rolls over to peer at it. “Ha...That? Prepare myself for _that_?”

“...Perhaps if you were a fish.” Linhardt rolls it back and forth under his finger. “The important thing is that it’s solid and I can use its array as a base for something else.”

“Like, _ah_ , what?” 

“That depends.” Its purpose now served, he presses the worm until it pops back into luminous tendrils. “What sort of phallus would you like?”

Metodey stares at the light until it fades, then blinks. “...Eh?”

“What would you like me to fuck you with?” Linhardt holds the board up and taps the center of its current array. “I’ll make it, or something like it.”

He gives it more thought than Linhardt expects, even slowing down his fingers while he savors the possibilities. Perhaps there’s too many? But right as he opens his mouth to offer a suggestion, Metodey gasps out: “cats—have barbs—” 

“Anything but that.”

“Then, a horse—”

“Or that.” That at times vexing curiosity of his wants to ask for further details, but he does his best to focus on the task at hand. “What would you want from a _human_?”

“I want you to...to fill me up, ah, yes, like I’ll burst...”

“At a size plausible for a human.”

“No, no, not _size_ , I want”—Metodey cuts himself off with a moan—“sow a field in me, a whole field—I-I’d grow such pretty flowers for you…” His free hand wanders up his torso. ”Mm, white roses...”

“You won’t be growing _anything_ from me.”

“Outside, then. In my mouth—” 

“That would be quite the mess.” Linhardt adjusts the chalk’s position in the compass. “How about we start simple? Easier to make, anyway.”

Metodey’s verdict is swift. “Boring. At least make it move, _ha_ , like the worm.”

Something animate? Easy enough, and it wouldn’t hurt anything...An intriguing prospect the more he considers it. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and Metodey perks up despite the usual mild tone.

The prospect apparently fascinates Metodey so much that he slips his fingers out of himself to study Linhardt’s sweeping arcs with the chalk as he traces over the earlier array, albeit with some adjustments. His fingers pause mid-glyph—is it parallel or perpendicular to the adjacent one? Parallel, he thinks, relieved when he completes the spell and is rewarded with another flash of light, though the feeling soon drains from him like a tea in a cup with a subtle crack.

Metodey snickers at the board. “Oh, it’s just the worm again.”

The artificial cock that rests on the chalkboard is slick and large enough to be functional, though perhaps not big enough for his partner’s peculiar tastes. It’s pale skin is somewhat translucent with a tip that calls to mind the post-mortem darkness of a corpse’s extremities, and ribbed with small rings save for a thick, clitellum-like band towards one end. It’s not _just_ the worm—it’s far worse. The wretched thing doesn’t even move.

Despite the pleasant temperature thanks to the incorporation of a fire glyph, Linhardt winces as he examines it. Aesthetics have never been a concern of his—far more effort only to disappear into some orifice all the same—but this is an embarrassment even by _his_ lack of standards. 

“I suppose that’s what I get for not bothering to practice...” Linhardt mutters. There’s been no need with someone so eager to satisfy his every whim around, after all.

And eager as ever, Metodey takes his own cock in hand with a grin plastered across his face. Linhardt could offer to fill him with just about anything and he'd enjoy himself, wouldn't he? The sentiment of his earlier words— _so long as it's you_ —glimmers in the depths of his golden eyes, prompting Linhardt to look away before his heart melts from their warmth.

The final piece of equipment is a simple leather harness. Metodey squeezes and pulls and pumps himself, makes no secret of watching every minute adjustment, red-faced and leaking by the time Linhardt’s confident the artificial cock is secure.

Content enough just to watch, he leans back against his bed’s headboard. “Keep that up and you’ll be done before I have a chance to do anything.”

“Hardly,” Metodey insists, even as his hips buck.

Lihardt gives himself a few experimental touches, mirroring the other man’s movements, though the sensation doesn’t inspire him to match Metodey’s odd expression. The twinge of pleasure is _there_ , yes, but like an accidental brush through a set of starched ceremonial robes. Oh well—something to fine-tune for another time, much like the unfortunate appearance.

“You’ll get tired and lazy and we’ll just have to nap instead,” Linhardt continues to tease, though if anything Metodey’s enthusiasm often _grows_ after an orgasm, judging by past observations. Such a baffling phenomena...

Still, the taunting is enough to stop his movements, though not before a contemplative look—about the nap? Linhardt smiles at the thought of him considering it over sex.

With the same speed that he fondled himself, Metodey rolls onto his knees and crawls between Linhardt’s legs, close enough for his breath to tickle—in theory if not reality—as he rests his head on Linhardt’s thigh. His eyes dart up from the cock then back down again; he strokes his fingers against one of the harness’ leather straps and licks his lips.

“...Go ahead.”

“I wouldn’t let this go to waste,” Metodey says, pressing a kiss to the base at the juncture of magic and skin that Linhardt _can_ feel, then licks in one long motion up the side. “I’ve never seen one with rings.”

A blush heats Linhardt’s face. “I should hope not.”

Despite the oddity, Metodey swallows it down one ring at a time until he reaches the widest band, and the greed on his lips is...flattering, really. Linhardt can hardly stand to look at this thing he’s conjured, but Metodey sucks it down as a delicacy, almost with the same reverence saved for Linhardt’s fingers or—now this may be a stretch—even his blood. If that’s an exaggeration then it’s only a slight one, as Metodey shoves his face up and down until he sputters, taking it deeper despite his own body’s warning to stop until he coughs around the base.

The vibrations it sends through Linhardt make him squirm, though the night will be spoiled if Metodey chokes himself—his face is already a dangerous shade of red. By now he’s studied enough of this man’s vices to know that he’d be happy _to_ choke, despite the way his eyes water and his eyebrows furrow; he struggles against Linhardt’s grip in his hair in blatant defiance of the efforts to pull him off.

“You’re welcome to keep going with”—he lets go and while Metodey does take it easier on himself, he still insists on showing off how much he can fit down his throat—“ _that_ , but you went through all that trouble with your fingers...”

Metodey lifts his head, a pout on his spit-slick lips. “...Not good enough?”

For a moment Linhardt leans down to kiss it away, even goes so far as to take Metodey’s chin and tilt his head at an appropriate angle, but catches the metallic whiff of blood on his breath and retreats.

“I think you look rather charming with a cock in your mouth, actually.” A smirk pulls at his own lips. “Just not this one.”

Metodey gives it lazy strokes out of what seems an idle habit more than anything else. “What’s wrong with this one?” 

“If you enjoy it? Nothing, I suppose.” Linhardt settles against a backdrop of pillows. “Though I thought you at least wanted it to move.”

He shrugs, then sits back up and makes his way into Linhardt’s lap. “I know a pretty good way to get things moving.”

“Oh, do tell. Better yet—show me.”

One of those ghastly smiles of his splits Metodey’s face as he lowers himself onto the cock, claws digging into Linhardt’s shoulders when he reaches the larger band. His body quivers—he’s going much too fast—and Linhardt digs his own claws into Metodey’s hips until he hovers in place.

“No need to rush.”

Metodey collapses forward, wraps his arms around Linhardt with his forehead resting in the crook of the scholar’s neck. After a few moments Linhardt eases his grip, allowing Metodey to continue, and it turns into an exchange of sorts once he’s past the band, his pace dictated by his own impatience and moderated by silent commands. The closer he is to the base the longer Linhardt makes him wait; soon his knees give out entirely and he sinks the rest of the way with a choked gasp.

The rest can be left to the other man. Linhardt leans back against the headboard and places his hands at the small of Metodey's back. While the direct stimulation still isn't much as he moves, the sounds he makes and the heat where their skin connects is satisfying enough.

"There you go, take as long as you'd like." A yawn escapes from Linhardt. "Go ahead and finish up if I nod off."

Well. Hard not to perk up at least a smidge when Metodey nibbles his earlobe and whispers, breath hot, "Fuck me."

Linhardt’s next yawn is perhaps exaggerated.

“...Fuck me?”

"So demanding…" He teases with a shallow jerk of his hips.

“Hmph. _You’re_ the one who offered.”

Linhardt makes a show of hemming and hawing with slow, uneven thrusts until Metodey starts going on about how he wants to be split in two—teasing in his own way, as that's what gets Linhardt to push him out of his lap and onto his back.

Metodey looks up at him with a sly grin, the tips of his ears are flushed a pleasant red, his pupils so dilated they’ve turned his irises into golden halos. As Linhardt settles between his legs they contract into slits only to bloom wide a moment later, flashing back and forth between the two extremes. An odd expression but not a bad one, Linhardt has learned; he could pen an entire volume of his theories about such faces.

“Excited, are we?”

Metodey nods, frantic.

Ah, so those eyes are related to some sort of excitement. What if he _did_ write that volume, and read it aloud? Then he’d have even more to study…

“Are you going to do it or not?” His pupils shrink. Genuine irritation, going by his tone.

Linhardt slips his hands under Metodey’s knees and pulls them up, higher and higher until Metodey’s ankles are over his shoulders. This position ought to do it—he presses himself back in, slow despite the protests, marveling at the former assassin’s flexibility as he’s bent at an angle so acute that it’s tempting to take the compass and measure the fit of their bodies. 

Once he snaps his hips for one, two, three experimental thrusts he finds yet another reason to be thankful for the claw caps, as Metodey grabs fistfuls of the blankets that would rip the fabric without them. Admittedly, it’s not a bad view even with Metodey’s eyes rolling back as his face twists in dumb ecstasy. Each time the wide band slides into him he gasps, pitch rising with every thrust until he runs out of breath and is left with stuttered cries and panting.

What else can he draw out? Noises and faces, yes, the sort that makes Linhardt appreciate his current position, aroused enough to enjoy himself but left with the clarity needed for useful observations.

“Well? How is it?”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. When they do, Metodey’s eyes roll to stare and his smile stretches wider. “U-uh— _More_.”

 _More_? Just how hard will this glutton make him work?

But if there’s one thing Metodey will never get enough of it’s the cling of their sweat-soaked skin pressing together. All that flexibility of his comes in handy as Linhardt leans down, bending him further, while Metodey crosses his ankles and uses his feet to yank him closer until some of Linhardt’s hair falls into his mouth; he sputters and laughs but then a moan swallows anything else he might say. Just a little more— 

The tang of blood lingers in Metodey’s mouth and perhaps Linhardt isn’t as unaffected as he thinks, for his first instinct is to kiss him deeper, savoring every delicious—no, _disgusting_ —drop that slides against his tongue; he drinks in Metodey’s desperate sounds as the other man’s body trembles underneath him and a wet heat spills onto both their abdomens.

Only then does he pull away.

Metodey’s legs flop down from his shoulders, still spread wide. When Linhardt starts to slide out he digs his soft-capped claws into Linhardt’s thigh. “Stay.”

“No, I think it’s time to lie down. I’m positively exhausted.”

“ _Stay_.”

“And you really should clean yourself up.”

Though Metodey resorts to his usual wheedling, the charm has worn off. It’s not like he’s going anywhere, so what does it matter? But if it’s the lingering closeness he wants or the stretch of what’s inside him, then it’s simple enough to undo his makeshift cock and leave it in until the spell unravels on its own.

This compromise seems to work; Metodey grins and closes his eyes while Linhardt shifts to fetch a cloth from the nightstand. “Usually _I’m_ the one who passes out.”

The only response is a grunt.

At first Linhardt tosses the cloth onto Metodey’s chest. Not even another grunt when it lands against his sticky skin, though his eyes flutter enough that he seems to still be awake. It’s more work to wipe him off, yes, but to see the results of such exertion so plainly on his body is...thought provoking.

The tip of Metodey’s tongue peeks out again and this time Linhardt doesn’t resist the urge to poke it, amused at how it darts back into his mouth. Another face to note.

“Cute...”

Metody cracks one eye open. “Eh?”

“Oh, nothing.” Linhardt fusses with the pillow arrangement until Metodey flops next to him, promptly disrupting it. “Just thinking about a project.”

“Which one?” he asks, then stretches and yawns.

An infectious gesture that Linhardt joins him in. “Compiling some reference material.”

“...About?”

“A rather esoteric subject. Difficult to understand, but that’s what makes it fascinating.”

Metodey blinks, slow and uncomprehending.

At first Linhardt chuckles to himself and returns to fussing with the pillows, fully prepared to curl up with Metodey once more and enjoy a nap, but now that he’s had the thought it nips at the back of his mind until he hefts himself out of bed. That post-orgasm energy Linhardt wonders about emerges in Metodey’s sudden whining at the empty spot, like a cat who's been shut out of a room after knocking over a drink. He settles down once Linhardt returns, journal in hand, and smiles despite a brief admonishment from the scholar; even once he’s asleep he makes an adorable nuisance of himself, clinging in such a way that it takes awhile to find a position to write in without waking him. 

The first expression Linhardt notes is his sleeping face: slack-jawed, drool on his lips, faint twitches that flutter his muscles. Leans into Linhardt’s touch as he toys with Metodey’s orange lock of hair, delight still written plainly on his features—genuine sleep, then, or is he pretending for reasons that make sense only to himself?

His notes wander off into other topics and sketches of arrays, until eventually he finds himself with footnotes about Metodey’s cutest faces and how one could coax them out.


End file.
